Book 1 of Loving Darkness Series
by Aslog
Summary: Harriet Potter transforms. A dark rewriting of Harriet Potter. Not for the faint of heart. Starts at first year, will be romance later on. This is a hardcore fic, so please be cautious. No Flamers please.
1. Chapter 1 and 2

Book 1 of Loving Darkness Series

Chapter 1: Stone Stolen

Albus Dumbledore was engaged in a rather intense staring contest with the portrait of former Headmaster Phineas Black. This in itself was not unusual. Indeed they participated in these competitions at least once a fortnight.

What was unusual about this particular contest was that Minerva McGonagall happened to be watching them watch each other with a look of barely restrained impatience on her face. This situation of silence and staring had lasted approximately five more minutes before the Deputy Headmistress had had enough.

"Really, Albus," She snapped indignantly, "We haven't time to spare for this foolery. Either he tells us something of worth or not," She said while sweeping her eyes over the portrait of the dour man in distaste. Dumbledore made no reply but continued staring. Minerva kept watching them for a few minutes more with eyes barely concealed their anger. Having had enough, she burst out saying:

"The Flemmel's deserve better than this, Albus," Minerva's voice as jagged as cliffs. With this outburst, Dumbledore turned towards the younger witch with a grave look in his eyes.

"My dear," he began with a frown, the familiar twinkle in his eye all but extinguished "do you believe that this act of savagery hasn't affected me."

"I know you cared for the Flemmels," Minerva interrupted tartly, "which is why it's surprising that you are here and not assisting the Auror's catch this fiend."

For a flickering moment, Albus Dumbledore suddenly looked old, and Minerva was reminded abruptly that Albus was not infallible, "Minerva, I was the first Wizard notified after the bodies were found," he looked deep into her eyes and regarded her steadily; the pain held in those blue eyes chilled her blood.

"It's been nearly twelve years since I have felt that amount of Dark Magic in a home," was all the answer Albus gave.

It was enough.

"Albus, you don't think."

"I am thinking a large number of things, Minerva, but all I know is that two dear friends are dead and a very powerful magical artifact is missing," Albus Dumbledore stared at the stern countenance of his deputy and saw fear and determination war for prominence in her eyes.

"Albus, is this the start of War? Shall I rally the others," Minerva spoke quickly and harshly, like lives already depended on her swiftness.

"Minerva, I have no proof beyond a few vague feelings in this matter. Many would say it's paranoia or old age creeping up on me," he laughed softly to himself at this. "Merlin knows they'd whisper that I'm going the way of Alister," His eyes briefly twinkled to his colleagues before they dimmed and he whispered, "but if what I fear is true then it may be time to prepare ourselves."

Minerva closed her eyes and nodded her head sharply. She rose to leave, and as she made her way across the brightly carpeted room, she turned to stare at Dumbledore in all his blue and magenta-robed glory. "This may not have anything to do with You Know Who," she remarked hopefully "the Philosopher's Stone is a valuable piece of magic," She turned to look at Dumbledore more thoroughly "the deaths could have been motivated by pure greed."

Albus Dumbledore stood up from his desk and bowed at the waist to her.

Minerva nodded in return, and softly closed the door behind her.

Chapter 2: Some Bloody News

Harriet Potter was on the toilet when one of the most important parts of being a woman happened. She was sitting in the blindingly white bathroom in upstairs Privet Drive when she noticed a smear of bright blood on her knickers. Her vision swam for a moment, and she felt the sweat bead under her arms and on her forehead.

 _"I'm dying_ ," a panicked voice in her head sounded, while the sensible part of her mind spoke up _"Don't be silly, you learned about this in school, there is nothing to worry about, it's just your period."_

She calmed down.

Harriet quickly scrabbled for the loo paper, accidently knocking the salmon colored bottle of lotion from the side of the sink spilling it all over the tiled floor. " _Bloody, Bloody hell,"_ she cursed at herself silently.

Quickly grabbing a wad of loo paper and stuffing it in her knickers, she pulled her trousers up and began scooping up the fallen lotion with her hands and putting the ruined product in the sink.

 _She's going to kill me, when she finds out, she'll kill me._

Harriet felt the edge of panic, making her hands shake, and her teeth chatter. She managed to get most of it in the sink and quickly ran the water; washing away the evidence. That done, Harriet used the last of the loo paper and mopped up the floor until the tiles gleamed with their former brightness.

Harriet breathed a small sigh of relief.

"Girl, get down here," Aunt Petunia screeched from the bottom of the stairs.

"Coming, Aunt," Harriet called as she ran out of the bathroom into the beige corridor, to the top of the stairs where she hastily trotted down to meet her Aunt.

Aunt Petunia's eyes were narrowed, and her lips were pursed tightly "What were you doing, you filthy girl," she hissed through her teeth.

" I.."

"Don't you dare talk back to me," Aunt Petunia growled while roughly yanking Harriet, almost dislodging her glasses, towards the kitchen.

Harriet stifled a yelp as her Aunt's nails dug into her shoulder.

As Harriet was getting pulled into the kitchen, she felt a strange wave of calmness fall over her, one that felt right and comforting. Harriet didn't try to fight it, she was used to strange things happening to her, and it was rare that something odd happens that didn't leave her in trouble or locked in her cupboard for days. So she let the strange feeling of calm and waiting fall over her while her vicious Aunt shoved her into the modern and brightly lit kitchen.

Harriet only just managed not to fall flat on her face.

Dudley laughed from the kitchen table, and Uncle Vernon snorted like a pig from behind his newspaper.

"Make some more bacon," Aunt Petunia ordered from beside the new dishwasher.

Harriet was still wallowing in the strange calm but obeyed instantly. The kitchen was filled with the smell of sizzling bacon, and the sound of Aunt Petunia stacking the dishwasher in a matter of minutes. Aunt Petunia soon deemed the bacon ready and began serving the Dursley's their breakfast, Uncle Vernon and Dudley falling on the food and getting quite a bit on the polished floor, and cream colored place mats.

Harriet, who was standing in the corner with a slightly dreamy smile on her face, began to rise out of her calm somewhat to remember that she needed to speak with her Aunt quite urgently.

She hesitantly approached Petunia, who was spooning the last of the bacon onto Dudley's plate. "Umm, Aunt Petunia, can I talk to you in private," Harriet began softly.

"What do you need her for, girl, eh," Uncle Vernon growled from around his food, his mustache quivering. "Doesn't she do enough for you as it is?" His piggish eyes stared at her across the table before going back to his bacon and toast.

"It's a women thing," Harriet answered carefully, the feeling of rightness and calm returning to her in full force. Uncle Vernon shot her a look of disgust, while Dudley just looked confused for a few seconds before tucking in again.

Aunt Petunia's lips thinned into a line as she gazed up at the ceiling like she was praying for deliverance from the curse that was Harriet Potter. She finally looked back to Harriet and with a quick gesture of her head motioned Harriet to follow her into the sitting room.

The sitting room of the Dursley house was done in shades of salmon – the most standard color, according to Aunt Petunia, with photos of Dudley and a boarded up fireplace, it was the epitome of suburban normalcy.

Aunt Petunia stood in the middle of the room, by the floral sofa with her arms crossed, "well," she inquired archly "what is it."

Harriet moved a few steps closer to the older women and took a deep breath to focus herself and announced: "I got my period this morning."

Usually having to ask Aunt Petunia, or tell her anything that was less than normal, was cause for fear, as there was one thing Harriet's Aunt hated more than anything was spending money and time on the scruffy girl.

But the beautiful calm prevented all fear and Harriet's significantly nurtured instinct for self-preservation was vaguely aware that being so calm in the face of danger wasn't the best idea.

"I got my period this morning," Harriet replied dreamily.

Petunia stilled "freak," she hissed wildly.

Harriet frowned at her slightly. She thought getting your period was quite normal. Then again a lot of things that Harriet thought were common like the grass whispering secrets to her or the shadows in her cupboard forming shapes like clouds were considered the height of Freakdom by her Aunt.

"You're not even eleven yet," Aunt Petunia continued "how could this happen your too young." "Clearly it's your father's vile blood," she paused " yes, that's it, that's always been the case, freak of a father and freak of a daughter," she looked pleased with herself as if she had just uncovered a divine secret.

 _My father is not vile or a freak_

Harriet felt a tightening in her chest and the calm she was bathed in morphed into a cold, ferocious anger she had never felt before, take up residence in her mind.

Aunt Petunia continued on, not noticing the changes to her niece "Regardless of your father's rottenness," she stated with an accusing glare at Harriet. "This is more money for you and," she began to glare intently at her "you better not start making eyes at Dudley or any other boy," Aunt Petunia told her sternly.

"What!" Harriet stammered in surprise, hardly daring to believe this. The shock of this had Harriet gaping like a carp. She didn't fancy anyone, not even a celebrity on the telly, let alone some boy as disgusting and piggish as her cousin. She didn't think that anyone could ever want to make eyes at Dudley. The anger in her mind began to burn brighter.

Petunia narrowed her eyes and smirked at her. "You'll be just like your mother, and she was an utter tart, always trying to get in with her betters," Aunt Petunia said. "Running around at all hours of the night with that Potter bloke, getting pregnant almost immediately, she had no shame, the slut," Aunt Petunia finished with a smile and a gleam in her eye. "Mark my words, girl, you'll turn out like her and end up the same way."

There was a finality to her words that made the pink room suddenly seem cold.

"Don't say those things," Harriet whispered her eyes downcast and her fists balled at her sides. The rage inside of her had swelled to the point where she could barely contain it. Harriet felt sweat on her forehead, and she began to pant a little.

"Don't you talk to me that way," Petunia hissed with a slightly crazed look in her eyes, and slapped her hard, with a resounding thwack.

Time stood still for a moment and the rage that had been building in her for so short a time crashed into the hate, bitterness, and jealousy that had been inside her for nearly eleven years and released an inferno that would change Harriet Lilly Potter's life forever.

She was no longer bound by the rules of man, which had repressed and chained her for so long. Harriet felt for the first time in her life what it was like to be truly free, to answer only to her own desires.

In that one eternal moment, Harriet changed into who she was always meant to be. Harriet felt her limbs strengthen and her nails grow long and sharp. She looked up at her Aunt, but instead of staring with the eyes of her mother, Petunia only saw the emerald green eyes of death.

That was the day Petunia Dursley knew true fear.

Petunia didn't even have time scream before one small, clawed hand reached up and slashed her neck, just above her pearl necklace. Her eyes widened slightly as she watched the graceful arc of her own blood spatter the salmon walls and family photos. So much blood gushed down her chest, it turned her entirely white blouse crimson.

As Petunia slumped to the floor there was a tiny instant of pain in her belly as her niece ripped her body open to reveal her glistening organs. The last thing Petunia ever saw was the shine of her own intestines in the morning sunshine and the child with hair of shadow consuming her liver with a smile on her face.


	2. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Enter Figg

"Didn't ask her before, should have asked her," Arabella Figg muttered to herself "Bally women knows something."

 _That shrewish fucking woman knows what happened to my Mr. Mittens_

Arabella trotted up the paved path to Privet Drive determined to get an answer to what happened to her cat. Arabella knew that the only reason Petunia pretended to care a jot about her was so she could dump Harriet on her doorstep whenever she wanted to go out, under the guise of neighborly friendship, of course.

Arabella also knew that Petunia hated her cats and couldn't stop wrinkling her nose when she came by. Having tea was an ordeal when her guest couldn't stop flinching at the slightest brush of cat hair and when she sat so stiffly you could mistake the bloody women for a wooden plank.

So when something happened to Mittens, her favorite cat, and Petunias most hated. Arabella immediately knew Petunia would have something to do with it.

She stood at the front door of the lovely house and knocked on the door sharply. Nothing, there was no sound of movement inside, no murmur of voices or squeak of floor boards under the weight of the Dursley's mammoth child.

 _Odd_ , Arabella thought as she surveyed the expensive car still in the driveway and the pink floral curtains still drawn in the sitting room window.

 _Perhaps they went out for an early morning walk._

Arabella doubted Petunia could get her whale of a husband out for a walk let alone her son. The fuss they put up would not be worth the effort of getting them out.

But this still didn't answer why no one was answering the door. Petunia Dursley was many things, but impolite was not one of them. She was a social climber and lived in fear of being rejected by the neighborhood women's society. So she was unflinchingly proper, and being proper meant answering the door when you were at home on a Saturday morning.

Arabella was not someone who gave up easily especially if it concerned one of her beloved cats, so she gave the door another sharp knock. She then carefully scanned every window and every front garden to see if anyone was watching what she was about to do. The street was quiet and serene, with not a curtain open and a soul about.

Satisfied that she wasn't being watched Arabella carefully reached into her pockets of her old brown coat and pulled out an old cigarette case. She then opened it with a careful hand to reveal a tiny white key.

It was a very strange looking key, mostly because it looked too delicate to be of any use. The body of the key was as fragile as bird's bones and the teeth on the head were so small they looked like they were carved by insects. Arabella carefully inserted the key into the lock and gave the slightest of twists. With a barely audible click the door unlocked.

She carefully replaced the key in the cigarette case, and with a final look around, she stepped inside.

The house looked exactly the same this day as it did every other time Arabella had been invited over; the soft salmon walls, framed photos, and rigorously cleaned carpets. Everything looked normal and as Arabella stepped further into the house, she could even faintly smell bacon and eggs. The only thing that was wrong with this scene was the deafening silence.

Arabella walked softly through the front hall, ears straining for a sound and eyes scanning the carpet for any trace of cat hair. She continued on searching, every inch of the carpet until noticed a part of the carpet that wasn't perfectly clean, in fact, it was stained a bright red, like wine.

This struck her as even more odd as Petunia never left a stain, every spilled drink, and a bit of mud brought in was cleaned straight away. So the fact this hadn't been cleaned was stranger than the unnerving silence.

As Arabella moved closer, to get a better look at the stain she noticed that it had been dragged faintly from the sitting room to the kitchen. She moved closer to the entrance of the sitting room, with a sinking feeling in her gut.

Arabella had owned many Tomcats over the years and was no stranger to violence and blood, in fact so was always patching up some stray or another. Because of this Arabella was very aware of what blood looked like and she was also very aware of wine looked like.

As she got closer to the door, the more certain she was that the red patch on the carpet was not wine.

It was with an uneasy feeling that she crossed through the corridor and past the cupboard under the stairs, to peak into the sitting room.

The smell of raw meat and shit hit her like a fist and Arabella had to turn away as she retched quietly into her closed fist before she could focus her eyes back on the scene in the sitting room.

Petunia Dursley was crumpled on her back in the muted brightness of the living room in a red pool of blood, her eyes glassy and unseeing, her blonde hair still neat but spattered in her own blood. If you just looked at her face, it was like she would start speaking to Arabella at any moment, to tell her off perhaps, for being in her home uninvited.

But Arabella couldn't just look at her face, her eyes had immediately been drawn to her neck, which gaped open like a dress split at the seams, and had soaked most of the carpet in blood. That wasn't the worst done to her body, though, someone had sliced through her dress, through the skin, muscle, and fat if her abdomen, to pull her entrails out of her body and to display them in delicate loops around her body.

The low-level panic that Arabella had felt since she first saw that blood stain, reared and consumed her, causing her breath heave from her chest in large gulps and her limbs to shake, her vision began to tilt, and she had to scrabble at the walls to keep herself from falling over.

 _What, how, why!?_

She couldn't even think clearly all she could do was breathe, to try and get herself under control. It took long minutes before she was able to straighten herself up and for the panic she felt too quiet.

But once the panic settled, a bone-numbing terror took its place.

 _"Who could've done this,"_ she thought to herself shrilly, her heart pounding wildly while running through a list of people who may have wanted to do Petunia harm. While there were many, like Mrs. Leadbetter, who would have loved to inflict a thousand little tortures on Petunia, none would stoop to murder.

 _It doesn't matter who did it, get out of the house!Call the police, the Aurors, Dumbledore, anyone but just get out! The killer could still be here!_

Arabella's rarely heard inner voice of self-preservation caused her to freeze and her blood to chill, as one thought gripped her mind in a fist.

 _The killer could still be in this house_

Arabella was not a brave woman, not when she was a young woman, and certainly not now. But she was a woman of her word and when she promised to do something she did it to the best of her abilities.

And almost twelve years ago she promised Albus Dumbledore to keep an eye on Harriet Potter for him. That promise was the only thing keeping her from running out of the house. She owed it to both herself and Dumbledore to at least check and see what had happened to the remaining Dursleys and Harriet.

It also occurred to her that Harriet and the Dursley's may still be alright and in need of help, although Arabella privately doubted them still being alive. The thought of them needing help was what decided her to move forward.

With that decision made Arabella swallowed the combination of bile and saliva that pooled in her throat, and looked around for a weapon.

Petunia didn't clutter her house, and so there was nothing besides the framed photos, a few delicate figurines on the mantle and a small lamp. Arabella selected a large frame with a picture of a smiling Dudley eating an ice cream in it and held up the sharp corner in front of her. She once again caught sight of the browning blood stain and began following it to the kitchen.

She took a shallow breath and angled the frame up higher, and began to walk towards the kitchen as quietly as possible, being careful not to tread in the browning congealing mess. She winced at every creak the floorboards under the carpet made, and every breath she took seemed louder.

The light was slightly dimmer in the corridor to the kitchen, and for a moment there was complete silence, but as she got nearer and nearer to the kitchen door, she heard a faint squelching sound. It was like someone had filled a bag with jelly and was running and squishing it on the floor. It was a bizarre sound to hear, so much so that Arabella lowered the photo frame a fraction as she pushed open the kitchen door.

But all it did was give her an uninterrupted view of the second scene of carnage she would see and allowed Arabella Figg to see with perfect clarity the monster that had killed three people in cold blood.

The monster was rolling, and hitting meat on the table and had the cloven hoofs of a goat poking from the hems of tattered trousers, sharp monstrous claws tipping the small delicate hands of the young girl. The two long horns that curved gracefully from her forehead were smooth and shiny. As the creature looked up from smashing the meat of her victims on the breakfast table, Arabella saw with horror that she recognised the green eyes.

 _The monster was Harriet_

Arabella screamed, and this time there was no minutes of shock and frozen fear, this time Arabella's Flight or Fight response demanded she run. She didn't even register dropping the frame or hear the shriek that broke through Harriet's throat, all she knew was the instinct to run; to put as much space between her and the monster as possible.

Arabella tore through the house she had tried so hard to keep undistributed, not caring that she slipped in blood while trying to run as far as possible. Or the noise that the door made when it slammed shut behind her.

She was heedless of the scene she would have caused if anyone had been awake to see her. Between panting breaths and her hobbling run, flashes of that awful scene would overtake her mind, so she pushed her body faster, hoping the physical pain would drive the metal away.

After only a few minutes of running, she reached her ivy-covered home quickly.

For once was not pleased to see the many cats skulking around her front door and front garden, as they meowed at her pleadingly and wound their bodies around her as she tried to make her way up the stone footpath and to the door as fast as possible.

Arabella was shaking so badly that she couldn't get her key in the lock; she kept brushing it, so by the time she managed to wrench the door open she was covered in small paint chips.

She was still shaking hard as she slammed the door behind her; unfortunately, the momentary pause allowed her to remember in shattering detail the scene she had witnessed. A part of the fear Arabella now felt was that she would never forget what she saw.

 _The piercing brightness from the un-curtained windows showed every detail of the two corpses and their killer. Whereas Petunias body had almost been neatly defiled, the bodies of her husband and son had not been._

 _Harriet had ripped into their bodies with such force that the blood spatter had covered every wall of the kitchen But Arabella barely even registered that detail, her eyes were glued to the bodies. Even to her untrained eye, it was clear that Dudley had barely looked up from his breakfast before he was struck down with the same slash to the jugular that killed his mother._

 _Vernon had tried to help his son before he was killed; his body was still angled protectively near Dudley. But whereas Petunia and her son both had had clean deaths, with simple throat slashes, Vernon had not died so peacefully. His throat was a savaged mess, the dark red muscle of his neck was on display, which made the white bone that poked through it stand out like blood on snow._

Arabella forcibly pulled herself out of the memory, knowing if she lingered she would likely dissolve into tears at best, and mad shrieking at worst. Even so, the bile that had lingered in her throat threatened to flood her mouth, and she had to swallow several times to keep from spewing her breakfast on the floor.

The terror she felt upon seeing Harriet still ruled her without mercy, as she quickly ran to her own sitting room, past the framed photos of cats and peeling floral wallpaper that lined her hallway.

Arabella threw herself into the sitting room at breakneck speed and hastened towards the fireplace, quickly noting the fire in her fireplace was low. She began to carefully but quickly move the picture frames on the mantle. While she tried to be careful, her hands were still shaking so much that at least three of her beloved photographs' fell to the floor, after that she abandoned all care and pushed and shoved until she came across a small wooden box.

The box contained one of the few magical substances Arabella possessed: Floo powder. As a squib, Arabella couldn't use a great many magical objects, and it was often painful to even have them around her; they were a constant reminder of what she could never have.

She carefully tried to pry open the box, but it took a few tries before she could actually remove the lid. By this time Arabella had tears streaming down her face in frustration and fear, and so it was with slightly wet hands that she pinched a bit of Floo powder and was about to throw it into the fireplace to call the Aurors when she paused.

Should she call the Aurors first or was Dumbledore better?

Arabella knew that if she called Dumbledore, Harriet would be secreted away in Hogwarts until he could use his influence to get her cleared of all charges. There would be no consequences for her, no punishment for her murders and, knowing Dumbledore, he would twist this all to his advantage, ensuring that the girl remained completely in his power and likely grateful enough to forgive him anything, including placing her with her Aunt and Uncle.

Arabella was no fool; she knew that Dumbledore suspected that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't really dead, why else would he put her with relatives who openly despised everything she was, and ask her to report on Harriet? No, Dumbledore wanted Harriet to be scarred and vulnerable, desperate to remain at Hogwarts and away from her relatives. All the better to mould and influence her into his biddable soldier.

Arabella didn't agree with most of what Dumbledore did, but if it weren't for him fighting against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, thousands of witches and wizards would have been killed before Harriet somehow defeated him as a baby.

 _It's the right thing to call Dumbledore._

 _Right for who?_ She asked herself. Right for Dumbledore, and his little schemes that always got people killed, all for a threat that was over nearly twelve years ago.

Was it right for the Dursley's who, if she called Dumbledore, would never get justice for their deaths.

That's what decided her, the knowledge that if she called Dumbledore, there would never be justice, even though the Dursleys where the worst sort of Muggles, they didn't deserve to die like that. They didn't deserve the Ministry cleaning everything up so that no one remembered them so no one would mourn their loss.

No one deserved that.

So with that last thought, she threw her pinch of Floo Powder into the fireplace and shouted "Aurors' Department."


	3. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The constables arrive.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was not pleased to be walking down the footpath in an overly - manicured Muggle dung heap of a suburb. He sneered slightly at the front lawns which were all perfectly mowed to the precise height of its neighbors.

He started when the hand of his partner grabbed his cloak and pulled him around to face a house that was barely any different from the ones on either side and in his frustrated state had just walked past number 4 Privet Drive.

He bit back a growl of irritation. He hated being sent on assignments like this, he was too senior for work like this. It should have rightfully been given to an green Auror, fresh out of the academy, to deal with a case that was probably a misunderstanding.

The problem was that the crime report had come from his superior, Albert Figg's, sister. He had nothing against Arabella, but he knew she wasn't the most reliable witness. She had once convinced Albert to assemble an entire team to find a missing person only for her reveal it was a cat. The embarrassment that had caused had prompted Albert to always take anything Arabella said with a grain of salt.

However this time he had sent Kingsley and has partner Boris Cobb, to investigate her claim. He didn't want to be vain, but he knew that he and Boris were the best in the department, so it chafed that they were being sent instead of a firstie.

He expressed as much to Albert, but he had given him a look that had brooked no argument. When Boris had asked about what exactly Arabella had said, Albert had just replied: "my sister is inconsolable, and is not making such sense."

He then shooed them away with a look that said, "find me answers or else."

Kingsley paused in front of the house and glanced at Boris, who was busy looking at the Muggles who were peering through the curtains at them. The short, squat wizard glared at the women who quickly shut the curtain and scurried away. He turned to look up at his partner who was staring at him in a bemused fashion.

"This it then," Boris asked in a slightly bored tone.

"This is the address that Arabella gave," Kingsley replied.

They both paused, neither wanting to go into the house.

"Merlin's fucking arsehole," Boris suddenly swore, "the fuck are we doing, dithering about like a bunch of fucking wet milksops." He began striding up the path with Kingsley in his wake.

"Fucking cunt probably called us about some shit eating kid, setting her bloody cat on fire," Boris ranted as they got to the door. It was a testament to the trust Boris had for Kingsley, that he could talk like this about his bosses family and not expect to get reported.

Kingsley just grunted his agreement.

They were both immediately on guard though when they noticed the door was left open. They shared a look and pulled out their wands.

Kingsley went in first, with Boris protecting his back. The house was clean and quiet, and as they both entered the room further, he thought that this was another one of Arabella's mistakes.

Then he saw the blood.

It was only a small amount and was getting quite brown, but he had been around too much violence to not know blood on sight. He motioned to Boris who was glancing at the wallpaper and photos in disgust. Boris's gaze immediately sharpened, and he stepped closer to Kingsley as they both peered into the sitting room.

The sight and smell of body of the horsey faced women didn't affect either of them after so many years in the Ministry. Although Kingsley's eye's narrowed at the brutality of the murder. From the corner of his eye, he could see Boris's fist tighten on his wand.

Taking a quick glance around the sitting room to make sure no – one was lurking there, the two Auror's began to make their way past the blood and into the kitchen.

Kingsley tried not to gag as the smell of spoiling meat and intestines hit him as he entered the kitchen. In his time as an Auror, he had seen many horrific scenes but nothing like this. But he also had to consider if this really was a crime for the Aurors and not the Muggle police, plenty of witches and wizards called the Aurors for crimes that happened to Muggle. The Aurors usually diverted them back to the Muggle Police and sent someone only if they needed to be Obliviated. The Aurors only dealt with magical crimes and that murder, while horrific, did not look magical.

The two fat Muggles had not only been disemboweled but had their chest cavities cracked open as well, but what was really sick was the fact that they were empty. Someone had taken out the organs of these two Muggles.

Kingsley slowly walked closer to the bodies, while Boris began scanning the blood spray on the wall. Now that he was closer to the bodies, he noticed that on the yellow fat liberally padding the corpse's body there were strange indentions, rather like teeth marks. He frowned a bit at this and bent down to gently prod gently at the fat with the tip of his wand.

Kingsley felt the hair on his arms raise moments before he heard the low warning snarling coming from his left. With instincts honed from years of facing threats, Kingsley quickly span on the balls of his foot until he met the source of the growl with his wand at the ready. He could see from his peripheral vision that Boris had assumed a similarly defensive position.

The growl had come from a small shadowed corner of the kitchen. Kingsley had a split second to register the shape of a young girl and the flash of fangs before she lepted at him.

Kingsley heard Boris let out a startled yell seconds before the girl crashed into him and knocked on his back. She was small but surprisingly strong and very fast, and it was only by pure luck that Kingsley narrowly avoided having his throat slashed by one of her razor sharp claws.

But the few seconds it had taken for her to jump on Kingsley had given Boris enough time to cast a spell.

"Stupefy," Boris yelled, the flash of scarlet light hitting the girl in the center of the chest, knocking her out instantly.

Kingsley scrambled up off the floor as the girl slumped on her back and hastily picked up his wand which had rolled under a chair during the fight.

Both men stood silent for a moment as they allowed their breathing to slow.

Boris was the first to break the silence.

"Fuck me, never thought I'd see a Nymph go feral," he remarked in an offhand manner.

Kingsley slanted an incredulous look at him and looked at the girl. He had never seen a Nymph look like her before, granted he had never seen a Nymph in her pure form before. But he had always assumed they would be beautiful, not ugly with horns and the cloven hoofs of a goat.

Kingsley frowned at his partner, "weirdest Nymph, I've ever seen," Kingsley said carefully,

Boris stepped closer to unconscious girl, blocking Kingsley's direct view of the girl and nudged her further onto her back with the toe of his boot. After running critical eyes over her, he grunted: "Looks to be a Lampade."

Kingsley's frown deepened "A death Nymph," he exclaimed "Merlin's Pants, what on earth is a death Nymph doing in a Muggle house," he paused for breath "Don't the Pure-Bloods keep the Nymphs locked up tight in their manors?" he suddenly asked his partner.

But Boris didn't seem to be paying much attention to his partner, instead peering closer at the girl.

"What, oh yes, Pure bastards usually do," he answered distractedly.

Kingsley paused, and repeated, "what do think she is doing here."

Boris snapped back "how the bloody hell do you think I would know that," and suddenly froze.

Kingsley instantly snapped to attention with a sharp "what is it."

"Maybe she didn't know," Boris said in a thoughtful tone.

"Didn't know what," Kingsley replied.

"About being a Nymph," Boris once again ran a critical eye over her "she looks to be the right age to go through the inheritance."

"Surely someone would have told her," Kingsley said, confusion evident in his voice, "I mean, the Nymph Inheritance only shows up in Pure-Bloods, someone had to know and tell her."

"Sometimes Half-Bloods."

"What."

"You said that the Nymph Inheritance only happens in Pure-Bloods, but it can sometimes occur in Half-Bloods with a Pure-Blood parent," Boris patiently explained.

Kingsley let out a loud, impatient breath "okay, it can happen to Half-Bloods, but that doesn't explain why she is in a Muggle house and why her parents weren't here to prevent this."

"Because they're dead," Boris replied and moved, so he was no longer blocking his partner's view of the infamous lightning scar on the girl's forehead.

Kingsley visibly reeled, and even his usually unflappable partner looked shocked.

"That'sss, that's Harriet Potter," Kingsley's stammered.

Boris nodded.

"That means," Kingsley once again focused on the fat corpses littering the room, "these must be her family."

"We have to tell Albert and the Minister," Boris said in a calm, matter of fact tone.

It wasn't fooling Kingsley in the slightest, he knew that Boris was anything but calm. Neither was he, in fact.

They were about to drop a political storm on the Minister's lap with these murders and the fact that the Girl Who Lived was a Nymph, and they knew it was going to be a dogfight deciding what to do, how to punish, and if to punish Harriet Potter at all.

This would be a case that could rock Magical Britain to its core, as the people's ultimate symbol of purity and Light, Harriet Potter, would be charged with murder at the tender age of eleven.

It was bad enough that Harriet was a murderer, it made it worse that she was a Nymph.

To Pure Bloods having a Nymph born into your family was a cause for celebration; it proved their family was indeed descended from the divine. They prized every daughter that was born a Nymph, knowing that prosperity would grow.

To the general Wizarding population the Nymphs were loathed for being Dark; always twisting men's hearts and minds towards power and danger, making them want what they could never have and forever tempting Witches and Wizards to lose themselves in the wild, reckless, heathen magic of the Dark. They were feared for the unholy beauty they possessed and were known to drive people mad.

So with the general public already only tolerating Nymphs, Kingsley knew that the uproar of the deaths of the War Heroine Lilly Potter's family would heighten all tensions between the Pure Blood's and the rest of the population.

Kingsley caught Boris's eye and nodded to his partner grimly. They both knew their duty; they had to bring Harriet Potter to the Ministry, regardless of their own misgivings.

Boris once again looked at the young girl and gritted his teeth "fucking Nymphs," he murmured. But he raised his wand at the girl and incanted.

"Incarcerous," he said his voice steady and sure.

Thick ropes shot from the end of his wand and wrapped themselves securely around Harriet's ankles, wrists and torso.

Both Auror's grabbed one arm each of their prisoner, and with ease due to familiarity, they both Apparated from Privet Drive with an almost soundless pop.


End file.
